for they shall inherit the earth
by sapphireswimming
Summary: Lockon hates terrorists with every fibre of his being. Tieria thinks this strange, considering his current occupation.
**I know they sort of have this conversation on the beach, but I wanted to see them talk about the issue more thoroughly. So this is set amorphously in early season one, but there are some spoilers for both Tieria and Lockon.**

 **(and it totally fits the "Innovator/Innovade / Peace" prompt for Gundam 00 Week because they're talking about the lack of peace shhhhhh)**

* * *

 **for they shall inherit the earth**

 _blessed be the peacemakers_

May 6, 2016

* * *

The door to the mess hall slides open with a hiss, and Lockon pushes in. He seems surprised to find that anyone else is there so late in the day, jerking back as he registers another presence, but quickly recovers when Tieria doesn't even bother glancing over as he pulls out the sugar from the cabinet above his head.

Lockon gives him a wide berth as he stomps toward the corner as heavily as the low gravity will allow.

Tieria easily ignores him, opening the box and pulling out the one cube of sugar he allows himself in his tea and dropping it into the steaming mug in front of him with a plop.

When Lockon pulls open a drawer so forcefully that everything inside shakes, however, Tieria does turn, eyebrow rising in an elegant arch as he picks up a spoon and stirs the slowly dissolving sugar into his tea.

It's not an invitation to talk, because he really couldn't care less about the problems everyone else on board the Ptolemy was dealing with, but Lockon seems to take it as such because he guiltily glances over and tries to rein himself in with a long, deep breath before offering an explanation for his temper.

Lockon sighs explosively and forgets about what he is looking for for a moment, instead running his hands down his face before finally grabbing a tray of food at random to make up for his missed lunch — B rations, and he grimaces but doesn't move to substitute it for something more appetizing. He tears the cover off the biodegradable plastic with jerky movements, obviously using less force than he would have had he been alone, and mutters, "Damn terrorists."

And then Tieria does realize what this is all about, because he had seen the news as soon as it had broken on the international stations that morning. A sloppy attack on a sleepy French village, the bomb detonating in the town square as they celebrated a centuries-old anniversary of their founding.

The perpetrators had been caught almost immediately—mostly because the two local young men, misguided political activists caught up in the fervor of the current international news, and taking it upon themselves to make a stir in their own backyard— hadn't moved far enough away before detonating their device, and when one of them had been caught in the blast, the other had been the first to frantically call the authorities for help.

Less than a dozen people had been killed in the square—nothing compared to the death toll on any of their own battlefields, of course, but Lockon had always had a strange propensity to get unduly worked up over any incident where terrorists of any kind were involved.

If only the man understood the hypocrisy, given his own role in the world, but he seemed blind to the glaringly obvious parallels of the things he did and the things they reacted to on the news.

Tieria didn't meant to respond, but he scoffs under his breath before he can make a concerted effort to stop himself and Lockon's head whips up, eyes narrowed. Tieria holds his gaze long enough to realize that the other Meister isn't going to let this drop now, and he sighs minutely, resigning himself to an encounter that he imagines will be about as effective as convincing their tactical forecaster that her performance would be improved by decreasing the levels of her alcohol intake.

"You really shouldn't get so worked up at terrorism, you know," he says, pulling the spoon out of his tea and tapping it against the side of his mug. "Not if you persist in continuing your role here as a Gundam Meister of Celestial Being."

Suddenly, Lockon's moving, closing the gap between them in a heartbeat and catching him by the collar of his pale yellow shirt.

"You bastard," he says, hefting him up a couple inches with narrowed eyes and an expression usually reserved for the people he was shooting. "It's different," he spits in his face. "We're trying to change the world and make it a better place. We're trying to stop all the terrible things that happen. We're trying to stop things like _this_ from happening."

Tieria just stares at him incredulously for a long moment, then wonders why he's so surprised. An odd smile spreads across his face and a moment later he laughs. He laughs so hard that he would be nearly doubled over if the other man weren't bodily holding him up and if his toes weren't barely scraping the tile floor.

Lockon draws back, eyes darting in confusion, and warily watches Tieria for a minute before abruptly dropping him to the floor.

"What's so funny?" he forces himself to ask, and Tieria finally collects himself, stretching out until he is ramrod straight.

He slowly looks over to Lockon, saying, "That's what every single terrorist in the world has ever tried to do." He leans forward into the other man's personal space, and is gratified to see Lockon's face twitching as he tries not to lean back. "There is no difference between you and them. Between you and the people who ordered the bomb-"

Before he can even finish his sentence, Lockon is snarling at him to shut up and roughly shoves him away until he hits the wall hard and his head follows with a loud _thud_.

The expression falters on Lockon's face for a moment as he reaches forward but Tieria only smiles coldly as he plants his feet firmly and stares up at him, deadly serious again.

"Fine," Tieria bites. "If that's what you want, I'll shut up," he agrees, acidly. "But surely you have to see that terrorists are people who try to change the world and end up taking lives to do it."

"But they were senseless!" Lockon counters, "People who didn't have to die. People who shouldn't have died-"

"And the people who died as a result of collateral damage from our battles should have?" he asks scathingly. "The body count from suits crashing into civilian homes is comprised entirely of people who should have died? The casualties from our second mission alone…"

Lockon stutters to a stop, swallowing heavily.

"Casualties…?" he finally asks, voice wavering.

"Hmm," Tieria says, lips pressing into a thin line as his eyes narrow.

His eyes flicker away, and he stares at the floor when he finally asks, "How… many-"

"Five hundred twenty nine," Tieria supplies easily. "Most of them were military, of course. But not all of them were mobile suit pilots. Not all of them were actively opposing us." He peers up at Lockon from behind his glasses.

"I know how you like sparing suits that turn around and run from us," he almost accuses, a sneer curling his lip. "How many of them do you think we gunned down in Moralia? Did you even watch the footage from the aftermath of the battle? The news reports? Did you see our handiwork? All of the structures we destroyed with the people still inside them because a shot went wide? Or hit its mark so that the suit went crashing down? Do you have any idea how much destruction we caused in those five short hours, Lockon Stratos?

"The world calls us terrorists," Tieria says, "and they are right to do so."

He stares up defiantly at the taller man, jutting out his chin, all but daring Lockon to try to disagree with him, to find a flaw in his perfect logic, but knowing full well that he won't. Knowing that he can't because everything he said is true.

Lockon rocks back, eyes wide as he tries to deny what Tieria has said, but somehow unable to find the words.

"What the world calls terrorism…" Tieria continues, never never knowing when to stop because his audience has heard enough, "are isolated acts of violence in the name of change it doesn't believe in."

He pulls down on his shirt to straighten it, and slowly brushes off the sleeves of his sweater. "History," he says loftily, "says terrorists are those who try to change the world by force. And _fail_."

With that, Tieria pushes past his fellow Meister and walks out of the room, shaking his head as he leaves because humans truly are baffling creatures. How they cand delude themselves into thinking they are anything but what they so clearly are is beyond him.

The automated door slides shut behind him once he leaves, sealing Lockon up in an empty room with a finality that he can hardly grasp. He stares at the door like he could see through it, could run after Tieria with an outstretched hand and make him recall all of his words.

Because for as long as he can remember, Lockon has built up his life's purpose to center around two things: hating terrorists in every shape and form, and wanting to change the world so that no one would ever have to die like his own family had.

He had joined Celestial Being wholeheartedly once Veda had recommended him for recruitment, knowing full well what the organization was doing, but just as convinced that their actions were necessary to change the world. Hoping that their interventions would eventually put a stop to conflict-related deaths.

And believing unironically that he was not a terrorist. That the two things were not incompatible.

But now he staggers back, one hand reaching for the countertop where Tieria's mug of tea sat, lukewarm and forgotten. The other is pulled down his face as his mind whirls through everything Tieria had accused them of—accused _him_ of.

Of being everything that he was trying so hard to eradicate from the surface of this planet. Of being the very thing he hated most in this twisted world. Of being a murderer no different from the ones who had killed Mum and Dad and Amy. Of being a man who killed someone else's Amys, perpetuating the cycle of violence but unable to break it, despite the most desperate of intentions and the sacrifice of everything he has left to give.

His legs threaten to give out beneath him and so he lets them fold, slowly letting himself down until he's curled on the floor, burying his head between his arms.

His breathing is shaky as he tries to keep the remains of his already shattered world from crumbling around him.

But there is nothing for him to do but realize that he has been lying to himself ever since he came to the Ptolemy. That the carefully maintained distinctions between himself and the people he fights are nothing but delusions, word-play that he whispers to himself so that he can live with what he has become.

There is no denying the truth, however, and he knows that Tieria is right. That he is nothing but a terrorist himself, couching his actions under the umbrella of ideals he doesn't even care about, so long as it gives him a chance to sit behind the controls of Dynames.

He is a terrorist and his family, memorialized under cold grey stone in Ireland, would never forgive him for this, for racing after impossible revenge when nothing can bring them back.

He knows that he will never be able to forgive himself for this, either, but this is what he has become and there is nothing he can do now but see this out to its end.

He will take the punishment the world deems fit to give him, when all of this is said and done. He knows he will pay for his crimes, and take full responsibility for his own acts of world wide terrorism.

But not yet.

Not until he's done. Not until he's finally wiped this awful planet of everything that has made him hate it so.


End file.
